


Waste Not

by scruples



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Nausea, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Table Sex, Zombie sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scruples/pseuds/scruples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Swann puts the Captain and his dinner table through their paces; Barbossa might not be able to slake his lust, but that isn't stopping her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waste Not

**Author's Note:**

> Not that it matters much -- when you get down to it, this is just plotless fucking -- but this probably takes place after an AU where, for whatever reason, no one sets after Elizabeth and the _Black Pearl_. Maybe Will or Jack takes a stray cannonball during the fighting in Tortuga, IDK.
> 
> Whatever, let's just commence with the rowdy zombie sex. Yeah!

With the blinds drawn against the moonlight, Hector Barbossa’s slab-like chest — heavily muscled and weathered by time — feels as warm and alive as the rest of him. Elizabeth moves her hands to dig her nails into his shoulders, knowing he won’t feel so much as a hint of pain. She hates that. In many ways, fucking the Captain is like throwing herself against a wall; no matter how brutally she rides him — rolling down against him with her hips in just the way to make the table creak and set the dishes around them to rattling — Barbossa does not flinch or budge, save occasionally to reach up and pinch her nipples or drag her down level with him, or to set his fingers to work on her clit and her pussy lips.

His rough fingers curl around the back of her neck when she moves one of her hands to rest against the table to brace herself. Elizabeth feels herself approaching her cusp, and perhaps by now he’s learned the signals in her expression or the thump of her pulse well enough to know how close she is, because his grip on her neck — heavy and insistent — pulls her close to him in turn. The hair on Barbossa’s chest tickles her breasts as he loops his other arm behind her back, just below her shoulder blades, and holds her against him. He thrusts into her, when he has remained still and impassive until now, and he grins at the low, guttural sound she looses at the added sensation. She smothers his smile with her lips, angry — at him or at herself, she doesn’t know, or care to.

A number of things happen at once. The ship crests a wave, sending platters and goblets crashing to the floor, and setting the heavy window curtains askew. A slender shaft of cold moonlight pierces the candlelit warmth of Barbossa’s — their — cabin, slashing across his chest and her clawed hand. As she climaxes, sliding down on his tireless, rock-stiff member, her fingers slide through the suddenly insubstantial skin of his shoulder and brush against bone. The tableau of sensations — his cock hard in her pussy, his tongue warm in her mouth, her fingers flexing in the chill remnants of his rotted shoulder — lasts only as long as it takes for the ship, and the curtains, to settle once more. Then his flesh is warm beneath her fingers again, as if nothing had happened, and his bristly beard and dry lips are rough against her neck.

She tastes bile in the back of her mouth, but tilts her head back to let him seek her throat anyway.


End file.
